Tom Riddle: Confessions

There are many who presume to write about it. There are even some who dare imagine what it must feel like. To Tom Marvolo Riddle, no amount of fantasy could have prepared him for the intense satisfaction he had experienced that day.

The dark seduction of power had thrilled him from a very early age. He would be lying if he said he didn't still feel the slight twinges of desire once in a while, though he wasn't one to prostitute his feelings. There was a sadistic instinct within him, compelling him to destroy life. This cruel inclination had remained dormant until, when finally aroused, it broke forth with devouring intensity.

His most vivid memories were the moans, the shudders culled from the thrill of succumbing to the darkness of extinguishing another person's life. The Mudblood had cried and, with every whimper, Tom's savage satisfaction increased. She was magically bound to a chair in the middle of his cold dungeons, watching his every move as he strolled around the dimly lit room. He did not use Avada Kedavra. What was the fun in that? One flash of green light and then death... no, he preferred the old-fashioned way.

The irresistible desire to kill drew him closer and closer to his prey. He inhaled sharply, besotted by the stench of her fear. The way his pale, tapered fingers stroked the vein that throbbed faintly on her temple could almost be described as tender. In this perverted game of cat and mouse, Tom relished the deliberate, calculating frightening of his prey.

It seemed that he could almost feel the burning sensation that spread across her stomach when he bore his wand into her tender flesh, and it delighted him to no end. He barely suppressed the giddy excitement in his voice as he muttered, "Crucio." She immediately arched her back in pain, and Tom's cruel chuckle was lost in the chilling anguish of her drawn-out scream. She fell, writhing on the cold stone floors of the dungeons, twitching spasmodically from the excruciating torment of the Cruciatus Curse. A low, guttural moan escaped from her lips as she threw her head back.

That's when he saw it. In the dim, flickering light of the torches that lined the stone walls, a bright flash of red called out to him. The cold laugh died instantly on his lips. He bent and examined the angry slit on her creamy, otherwise unmarred throat. With deliberate slowness, he slid his tongue over the wound. Oh... The metallic tang of blood filled his mouth and swept him into rapturous waves of ecstasy. He sucked harder, making her feel the sweet agony of his hunger.

He was slow, languorous, until the very last second. Then, with murderous ferocity almost incredible to behold, Tom Riddle pounced upon the terrified Mudblood. The Cruciatus curse had rendered her weak, almost unable to move. She gasped faintly but didn't struggle as he sank his teeth fiercely into her neck and tore at her skin, lapping eagerly at her blood. Pressed harshly against his own, he could hear the Mudblood's heart as it pulsed with its last tentative beats. She convulsed one last time, then lay still, eyes glassy and unseeing. It was his first killing.

In all the years that followed his ascent to power, his raging thirst for blood was never sated. He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named would forever lust after the throbbing pleasure of stolen life.